The Truce
There is a truce...I lovers, tell
The hungering world...you know it well;
Swords laid aside, a heavenly pause
In the assualt of love's cruel wars.
Then the lover's bending head
From his smooth throat like Adam's turns,
And gentle kisses close her eyes
Like hesitating butterflies;
Unwavering the passion burns
Tranced, tranced in visions softer than
The fabled schemes of Kubla Khan.
It is for this that men make war,
Breathe gold like air, go mad, or die,
Spend years as grey as moth-wing tiips,
Scale peaks, and rim the sea with ships.
All for this truce, this trance of love,
When the whole world hovers like a dove,
And gentle darkness shuts the eyes
With kisses soft as butterflies.
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